Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [89]
The mysteries of my mind. The mysteries of my grandmother.
I drive by Magnolia Manor. The front entrance is dark. Only a handful of the windows inside are lit. I’m struck by the peacefulness of the place; I’m always so critical of Magnolia Manor but now it seems like a refuge of solitude and a quiet place to spend a few years playing bridge and watching reruns.
For good measure, I park three blocks away.
I walk along the quiet streets to the retirement home’s entrance. I slink along the side of the gardens that lead from the gates to the front doors. To get inside, I’ll need to convince the desk guard to buzz me in. More likely, he’ll not do so, or he’ll call the cops.
There’s an alternative. Vince lives in a flat detached from the Manor, on the right side of the property. His residence is a two-story brownstone that looks like it belongs in a swanky Boston or New York neighborhood. Like Vince, it is well kept and austere. From the porch light, I can see the grass cut precisely along the stone path that leads from gate to front door.
I walk to the red-painted door. I reach for the handle, and I find it open. I enter.
Vince sits in a deep, upholstered recliner in his living room. There is a book across his lap. The Human Asparagus doesn’t look surprised to see me.
He is surprised, however, when I bullrush him. Without a word, I hurl myself toward the chair as he reaches for the telephone sitting next to him.
I smack the phone out of his hand and reach for his throat, then pull back, gulping for air, standing over him. I have the upper hand, physically. He cannot match my anger or drive.
“If you hurt me, you won’t find your grandmother,” Vince says, trying to stay cool.
“You took her.”
“I protect my residents.”
“Where is she, Vince?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. You just said . . .”
“Plausible deniability. I helped take her. To protect her. but I don’t know where they put her.”
“Who?”
I’m asking the question, but I already know who Vince is referring to.
A voice confirms my suspicions.
“She’s safe,” the gravelly bass voice says. It comes from behind me.
I turn and am struck by the interloper’s lean face, serious, with thoughtful eyes, like you’d imagine from a troop commander whose squad took a few too many casualties.
I look down at his feet. I see the toes turned just a tad inward.
“Hello, Pigeon,” I say.
“I haven’t been called that in many years.”
“I have a strange question for you.”
“Your grandmother is okay. She’s fine.”
“I know that, Harry.”
“I can take you to her.”
“No,” Vince says.
“It’s okay, Vince,” Harry responds. Harry has clearly led men.
He looks at me. “What’s your question?”
I clear my throat.
“Are you my grandfather?”
A tear wells in the corner of Pigeon’s eye.
Chapter 49
It’s a wonder I haven’t had my membership card in the Northern California Press Club revoked. For the last day, Grandma hasn’t been very hard to find. She’s been back at the home, in her own bed.
I stand at its foot, watching her sleep. Next to me stands Harry. His agitation is evident only from the rhythmic grinding of his teeth. Betty Lou stands nearby in a terry-cloth robe, rocking on her feet.
“It would be better if you’d wait outside,” Harry says to Vince.
“I don’t trust him,” Vince says.
“Trust me,” Harry responds. “If there’s a problem, you can always call the police.”
Vince glowers at me. He walks out the door. He’s limping, but I let the observation go for the moment—along with a lot of other unanswered questions.
Harry and I walked here in silence. So I still don’t know the crucial particulars. Right now, I feel mostly immense relief.
I turn to Betty Lou. “I don’t blame you,” I say.
“You’d have no right to. Laney needed to be safe,” she says, then takes the edge off with her addendum: